


Overlord

by setepenre_set



Category: Megamind (2010)
Genre: Backstory, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-15
Updated: 2017-02-15
Packaged: 2018-09-24 15:32:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9768266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/setepenre_set/pseuds/setepenre_set
Summary: The Overlord of Metrocity, through the eyes of his criminal empire. (prequel to Code: Safeword.)





	

The kid’s wearing a leather jacket with the collar popped up, leaning against the wall like he thinks he’s James Dean or something. That’s the second thing Scar notices about him.

The first thing she notices about him is the weird, oversized shape of his bald head.

The third thing she notices about him is the blue skin—that comes third because the streetlights on this corner wash everything out a little blue, up to and including Scar’s hair. Which is fucking irritating, really, after all the goddamn money she’s spent on keeping it perfect—bright red and chemically relaxed until it’s straight and shiny. It’s her real hair, too, and she’s damn proud of it; she’s not like Beauty, with her wigs for every day of the week.

Beauty, who is wearing the blonde wig tonight, big barbie doll curls gleaming gold against her dark skin, makes a noise of outrage behind Scar when she sees the kid standing on their corner. It’s echoed by the other girls. Scar gives them a swift glance over her shoulder and they mostly go quiet, though she doesn’t think she’s imagining the extra snap to the way their high-heels hit the sidewalk as they move forward.

The kid straightens up from the wall when they stop in front of him. Scar pops a hip and looks him up and down dismissively.

He’s obviously new to this.

The eyeliner’s good, but the jeans should be tighter, and his jacket’s zipped up; he should be holding it open, never mind that it’s fucking freezing out (dirty snow in the gutters, but Scar and her girls are all damn well wearing miniskirts, because they are professionals).

“Psycho says this is our corner,” Scar says to the kid, not bothering with greetings, or with making her tone anything other than a challenge. “Can I _help_ you?”

The kid smiles at her, sharp and fast, like he’s flicking out a switchblade.

“I think,” he says, “that we can help each other.”

Scar blinks, looks him up and down again, her previous assumption of competition changing to potential client.

(he doesn’t look like he’s got money, but hey, maybe he robbed a gas station or something. Scar doesn’t give a shit where he got the money, as long as he can pay.)

Scar leans into her popped-out hip a little harder, gives him her automatic client-smile.

“Sure, sugar,” she says, gesturing at herself, Beauty, Cara, Lily, and Devika. “We’re here to help. Which one of us you wanna see?”

“I would very much like to talk to all of you,” he says decisively.

Scar’s eyebrows rise. Lily, Cara, and Beauty laugh. Devika makes a dismissive noise.

“Uh-huh,” she says, “well. If you think you can—uh—handle. All of us. Gonna have to see the money first, though, kid.”

She’s figuring he doesn’t have it; she’s also figuring that calling him kid is gonna piss him off, especially since the others aren’t even bothering to smother their laughter anymore.

To her surprise, though, he just frowns slightly, tipping his head like he’s not sure of the joke.

“—I did specify _talk_ for a reason,” he says, “but of course I will still be willing to pay you for your time.”

He reaches into the pocket of his jacket and pulls out a stack of bills, fans them out, then folds them up again and slides them back into his pocket.

The other girls stop laughing; Devika whistles quietly. Scar’s eyebrows rise even higher. Fuck, that’s a lot of money.

“Sure, sure,” she says. “What you wanna talk about?”

He shakes his head.

“Not here,” he says, “and not now. You usually finish up around six, correct? Meet me at the Madison street diner then.”

Scar bites the inside of her cheek. By six, all of them are going to be more than ready to get back to the club for their morning dose of smoke—Scar just as much as the rest of them. Psycho’s got his claws into all of them good and deep; if this kid wants to talk long, they’re not gonna be getting the shakes and the aches—

But goddamn, that was a fuckton of money—

“Yeah, okay,” Scar says, and the kid nods sharply, turns on his heel, and walks away.

“—the fuck was that?” says Devika, speaking for all of them.

They debate all night over whether or not to show up at the diner. Lily says she thinks he’s a wannabe pimp, looking to take over some of Psycho’s territory, in which case, they need to stay the hell away from him. He looks younger than Cara, even, and skinny enough for Scar to snap in half, let alone one of Psycho’s thugs. Cara thinks he’s someone Psycho sent to spy on them; Devika says Cara’s paranoid—it’s a diner; what’s the worst that can happen? Beauty votes they go. Worst comes to worst, she says, they can just beat him up and take the money.

“We go,” Scar says. “If he’s looking to steal Psycho’s territory, we can tell Psycho, yeah? And still get the money.”

Cara and Lily scowl, but they all go.

* * *

 

The woman waitressing doesn’t even blink when Scar and the girls walk in. Scar supposes, working the redeye shift at the Madison street diner, that the woman has probably seen stranger things than five streetwalkers coming to breakfast.

One of the stranger things is seated at a table in the corner: under the fluorescent lights, his skin color is startlingly blue, and his head looks stranger than ever. Scar hesitates a moment, but they’ve come this far, and like Devika says—it’s a diner; what’s the worst that can happen?

They sit.

“Talk,” Scar says, knee bouncing restlessly, hands clenching and unclenching under the table—Lily’s last client took longer than expected, and they’re all already aching for their fix.

The kid doesn’t talk, though, just opens his hand and spills a handful of white pills out onto the cigarette-scarred green plastic of the tablecloth.

“The hell is that?” Scar asks scornfully.

“The antidote,” the kid says, leaning back in his chair.

“To what?”

“To the thing that’s making you shake like that,” he says softly.

Scar goes still; all of them do.

“Bullshit,” she whispers. “There ain’t no antidote.”

“There is, though,” he says. “I made it.”

Cara makes an angry noise.

“What the fuck we doing here, talking to this freak thinks he’s a dealer, huh?” she asks, hands flat on the table, getting ready to shove herself to her feet.

Scar, though, has her eyes on the kid’s face; she puts her hand on Cara’s wrist.

“How much you want for them?” she asks.

“I don’t want money,” he says. “I want your assistance.”

Scar narrows her eyes at him.

“You think you gonna take over from Psycho, then?” she asks, voice mocking.

The kid smiles that switchblade smile.

“Oh, no,” he says, “no, I don’t want Psycho Delic’s territory. I want the whole city. And I’m going to take it. And then I’m going to give Psycho’s job to you. If you’ll give me your assistance.”

The girls all bust out laughing, Scar would, too, except she’s still looking at the kid’s face.

(his eyes are fucking disconcerting—it took her this long to notice them, because the obvious weirdness of his skin and his head distracted her, but his eyes give Scar the shivers. They’re too goddamn green, for one thing, like something that belongs in a beaker labeled ‘poison’. And they seem to shine slightly, like he’s burning from the inside-out—like there’s a chemical fire raging beneath his skin.)

(the expression in them is the worst part, though—it’s the expression of someone who knows he’s burning because he’s the one that damn well struck the match.)

“Explain,” Scar says, and his smile widens, sharpens as his eyes burn and burn and burn.

“I think it’s time for introductions, first, don’t you?” he says. “Your name is Miss Scarlet, isn’t it?”

“—yeah,” Scar says, after an almost imperceptible pause. She did call herself Scarlet, originally, for her hair, but she’s been calling herself Scar ever since Psycho marked up her face.

Nobody’s ever called her Miss Scarlet, though. It’s extra weird ‘cause he doesn’t seem to be joking or making fun of her, with it.

“Miss Scarlet,” she echoes, liking the sound of it. “And this is Beauty, Lily, Devika, and Cara.”

“I am very pleased to make your acquaintance,” he says, still smiling. “My name is Megamind. But you may call me Overlord.”

Scar stares at him for a long moment, and then all of them laugh. His smile doesn’t falter, though.

“…yeah, okay, whatever,” Miss Scarlet says finally.

* * *

 

She makes him take one of the pills himself, sits and watches him for an hour to make sure the pills don’t make him drop over dead or anything. (her skin feels like it’s going to crawl off of her body by the time the hour’s up, but it doesn’t seem to have any bad effect on him.)

Scarlet, Beauty, and Devika take the pills; Cara and Lily don’t. They don’t trust them, and Scar wants them to be able to function normal anyhow, if these pills fuck the rest of the group up.

“The pills are a combination of the antidote,” the blue kid says, “and another chemical which should allow you to manage the cravings with more ease—I’d suggest supplementing it with nicotine, too. Cigarettes, patches, gum, whatever you like.”

Scar’s not expecting much, in spite of his big talk, but when she walks into Psycho’s, she takes a deep breath of the cloying, pink-smoke-scented air, and that sick-sweet rush of relief/arousal/satisfaction—doesn’t come.

“I’ll be god damned,” says Beauty, beneath her breath. “That shit works.”

They don’t tell Psycho about the kid, or the pills, and they meet him at the diner again the next morning, where he elaborates on what, exactly, he means about taking the whole city.

“—I don’t believe you,” Cara says flatly, when he’s finished.

“Cara—” Scar says.

“No, fuck you!” Cara says angrily, “And fuck him, too, tryin’ to lie to us like that! This little freak’s gonna help us? Wake up, Scarlet!”

“Tell me,” the blue kid says, tilting his head, “what would it take to convince you?”

Cara rounds on him snarling.

“You,” she spits, “you think you’re gonna be a big deal or somethin’, huh? Psycho’s gonna fuck you up, and then he’s gonna fuck us up for being stupid enough to talk to you! You know what Psycho does to whores who disobey? You forget what happened to your face, Scar? You all forget what happened to Vicki?”

“Cara, come on—”

“Lemme just remind you what happened to Vicki,” Cara says, “Got herself thrown out the fucking window, that’s what happened to Vicki. And all she did was talk to a different pimp. So I’ll tell you,” she says, turning back on the kid, “what it’ll take to convince me, Mr. ‘Overlord’—you throw that piece of trash out his own goddamn window, the way he did Vicki, and I’ll be pretty damn convinced. Until then? Fuck off.”

She shoves her chair back, stands, and walks out of the diner.

“I see,” the kid who calls himself Megamind murmurs as the door slams shut behind her.

* * *

 

One week later, when Psycho’s finally got them off street duty, he calls all five of them up to his office for a private session with a client.

Who turns out to be Megamind.

Scar sees him and freezes for a second in horror—oh god, oh god, this kid’s going to get himself killed—

“Ladies,” Psycho says, and Scar can taste the danger in the air, underneath the pink smoke smell that pervades the room. “I’d like to introduce you to—what did you say your name was again?”

The kid smiles like a switchblade, but Psycho’s grinning like a crocodile, slow and lazy, and fuck her, that emphasis he put on introduce—Psycho knows, doesn’t he; this kid’s gonna get them all killed, and there’s two guards at the door and she knows for a fact that Psycho has a gun under his desk and—

The kid, seated in the chair in front of Psycho’s desk, raises his chin.

“My name is Megamind,” he says, “but you may call me Overlord.”

Psycho laughs, low and dark and nasty, and Scar’s stomach twists and Psycho jerks his head at the two guards in the door, who move forward towards the kid in the chair and—

It happens fast, too fast, inhuman-fast, so fast that when Scar remembers it later, she sees it in slow motion, a sort of flick-flick-flick of images, like a real old-fashioned cartoon.

Megamind’s in the chair—the thugs are moving forward—Megamind’s on his feet—

There’s a pen on the desk—it’s in Megamind’s hand—now it’s in the first guard’s shoulder. The man makes a noise of pain and Megamind ducks, kicking out backwards at the same time—the blow connects with the second guard’s knee with a crack—that leg gives out beneath him and Megamind surges upward, grabbing hold of the pen that’s in the first man’s shoulder and using it to hoist himself up in the air, planting one foot in the man’s groin and kicking back and up this time, knee bent, back arched like a dancer, so that his foot slams beneath the second guard’s jaw this time—

The guard goes down hard, blood and teeth on the floor; the first man bellows and tries to pound his fist into Megamind’s side, but Megamind kicks off of his body and actually flips himself backwards, out of the man’s reach, left palm hitting the floor, then his feet, as he lands lightly in a crouch, the bloody pen back in his right hand now.

Psycho shouts something, reaching beneath his desk, and the guard lunges for Megamind, who rises to his feet and moves like he’s gonna close with the man, but then at the last second he ducks and spins out of arms length, right arm snapping out like a cobra striking, burying the pen swiftly in the man’s side before yanking it back.

The guard screams and turns, too slow, too slow, arm swiping clumsily at Megamind, who catches his wrist and puts the pen all the way through his hand. The man screams again, falling to his knees, clutching his hand, and Megamind grabs the back of his head, holds him in place, and brings his knee up sharply, connecting with the man’s face. He falls and—

—the sound of Psycho pulling the trigger of the gun is like a clap of thunder inside the room; Scar hears someone scream—Lily, she thinks—and Megamind turns to Psycho, but he doesn’t fall and—

— the gun again, but Megamind still isn’t falling, he’s moving forward, and—

—this time she hears the crack that follows as the bullet somehow breaks the laws of physics, bounces around Megamind, and goes through the big glass picture window behind Psycho and—

— the expression on Psycho’s face: almost comical terror as Megamind steps fluidly onto the top of the desk and—

—Psycho screams and fires at Megamind from inches away and—

(click click click the gun’s empty and)

Megamind raises one booted foot and slams it forward into Psycho’s chest, so much force that the whole chair flies backwards and Psycho Delic—

—crashes through the window.

For a moment, the room is silent and still, and then—

“Holy fuck,” Cara breathes, and darts forward to the window. Scar and the other girls aren’t far behind; they get there in time to see Psycho, lying on the ground and shrieking, get shot by what looks like a robotic gorilla, and turn into a tiny blue cube.

“—the fuck,” Davika says weakly.

“Well done, Minion!” Megamind calls from behind Scar. “Come inside now and meet us at the top—feel free to shoot anyone who gives you any trouble!”

“You got it, Sir!” the robot says cheerfully.

“—the fuck,” Lily croaks.

“Fuck you!” Cara screams out the window, presumably at the tiny cube that used to be Psycho Delic. “Fuck yeah!”

She spins around, dark eyes wild. Scar turns, too, along with the other girls.

Megamind is leaning up against Psycho’s desk, that mad light dancing in his eyes as he twirls the bloodstained pen between his fingers. He smiles, sharp and bright.

“Now, I think we have business, to discuss,” he says.

* * *

 

“…and that’s—all that you want,” Miss Scarlet says slowly. “The money—and the information.”

“Yes,” Megamind says, “the vice tax money, as agreed, with exact percentage to be negotiated after the registry is operational and we have a better idea of the Association’s income. And the information about all of the Association’s clientele.”

“…and that’s it,” Scar says, and then pauses, waiting. “That’s—the only thing you want? Nothing…else?”

(out of the corner of her eye, Scar sees the other girls exchanging glances, waiting for it, for him to say—)

“Yes, of course that’s all,” Megamind says, sounding as if he can’t imagine what else he might ask for. “Are the terms to your liking, Miss Scarlet?”

She stares at him hard for a moment, but his expression doesn’t waver.

“Yeah,” she says, “sounds good to me.”

* * *

 

“How long do you think it’ll be before he wants to fuck one of us?” Lily asks dryly, later that night.

Devika snorts.

“Didn’t think he was gonna have to ask,” she says, “thought Cara might fuck him right there in Psycho’s office.”

“You say that like it’s a joke but I totally one-thousand percent would have,” Cara says seriously.

Davika and Lily both laugh.

“Maybe he didn’t think it needed saying?” Beauty says, scrubbing off her makeup. “Maybe he’s just planning on stopping by the club, you know, whenever?”

“If he is, then he can pay, same as any other customer,” Scar says, voice cool.

This earns her a chorus of hoots and whistles from the girls.

“Bet it’s Scar he wants to fuck,” Lily says, and bats her eyelashes, “Miss Scarlet.”

Scar throws a used towel at her.

* * *

 

The Overlord does stop by the club plenty of times in the coming months, but he never says anything about special privileges—it’s a little disconcerting, to be honest.

“Maybe he likes dick,” says Hot Flash, lighting a cigarette.

“Excuse me,” says Beauty, exaggeratedly offended. “If that’s the case, then I have more than enough to offer!”

Hot Flash gives a throaty laugh.

“Ya know what I mean,” she says. “Maybe he likes dicks when they ain’t attached to girls.”

“Bobby down at the Gentleman’s Gentleman told me,” Davika says, “that a bunch of them made passes, too, and got nothing.”

Scarlet chews the end of her pen thoughtfully. Hot Flash shrugs.

“Maybe he likes ‘em butch,” she says.

The burly, muscular thug Hot Flash brought along tonight—Gary, Scarlet thinks his name is, gives a cough, and goes a little red.

They all turn to look at him expectantly.

“What, really?” Hot Flash says gleefully. “Why, Gary, baby, here I thought you were on the straight and narrow!”

Gary goes an even deeper shade of red, shakes his head.

“Tried,” he mumbles. “Got nowhere, too.”

They all sigh with disappointment.

“Damn,” says Beauty.

“I’ll bet I could get him to fuck me if I tried,” Lily says.

They all blink at her.

“I’m just saying!” Lily says, “I could!”

They all—without actually saying that they’re going to—try.

Even Scarlet gives into the general insanity and wears something extra slinky when the Overlord’s next visit is scheduled. Not that it does any good, because every single girl in the whole club seems to have decided to do the same thing.

The Overlord doesn’t even seem to notice. It’s kinda maddening.

* * *

 

“Uncle Lou,” the Overlord says to Lou Nowicki, “I’d like you to meet our new associate.”

Lou Nowicki raises his eyebrows. The Overlord’s sharp smile does not waver, the edges of it becoming even more pointed.

Scar draws herself up, lifts her chin.

The Overlord does not break his gaze with Nowicki, who, at last, sighs and holds out his hand to Scarlet.

“Lou Nowicki,” he says. “And you are, _madam_?”

This guy, Scar can tell, is making a dig at her when he calls her _madam_. And all of a sudden, Scar doesn’t care how many people he’s killed, doesn’t care how much time he’s done, doesn’t care who the hell he is. Fuck this guy.

She thinks of switchblades, and then she smiles.

“ _Madame_ ,” she says, putting out her hand so that Lou Nowicki can’t tell if he’s supposed to shake it or kiss it. “Madame La Roux,” she adds, remembering the half-semester of high school french she took before dropping out.

(The Overlord, watching the exchange, smiles just a little wider.)

* * *

 

“—so what’s the, you know, deal,” says Eva Palmer says, when the leading ladies of the criminal underworld have gathered to have their bi-weekly wine-and-gossip session.

(it’s only the second wine-and-gossip party that Mrs. Palmer’s been to, but Scarlet likes her already. She was worried at first; Eva had seemed so intimidating with her clipboards and her wire-rimmed glasses and her suits—but she’s a lot more fun that she appears, especially once she’s had a few glasses of wine)

“The deal with what?” Lady Doppler asks, sipping her wine delicately.

(she, Scarlet thinks, is exactly as un-fun as she seems, although Lily swears up and down that she gives the best head in the universe—evidently they hooked up a few times)

“The deal,” Eva says, gesturing expansively, wine tilting precariously in her glass, “with the Overlord. I can’t figure it out! Who is he sleeping with? It’s has to be somebody, right?”

The whole room gives a collective groan.

“Wh—are you serious?” Eva asks incredulously. “But he’s so—” she gestures again.

“We know, honey; we know,” Hot Flash says sympathetically.

“Oh, come on!” Eva says, “You’re not going to tell me that all of that—” another comprehensive gesture, “—is just going to waste!”

She looks at Scarlet reproachfully.

“Well, it ain’t my fault!” Scarlet says. “Not like I ain’t tried!” she adds, tipsy enough that she doesn’t mind admitting to it.

“We’ve all tried,” Cara says.

“And tried,” Beauty says.

Davika and Lily clink their glasses. Gary, in the corner, raises his own glass in silent, mournful agreement.

* * *

 

Madame LaRoux is interviewing a potential new Association member when the doors to her office slam open dramatically and the Overlord stalks in, unannounced and scowling. She’s used to him by now, so—dramatics aside—his sudden appearance doesn’t shock her, even if he has taken to dressing in skintight leather lately.

The girl she’s interviewing—Missy, she calls herself—isn’t quite as blasé. She freezes, wide-eyed, mouth dropping open.

“I has come to my attention that—” the Overlord begins, voice thunderous, and then Missy’s kid, who Madame LaRoux has let play with a stack of folders in the corner of the office, toddles forward and grabs his leg.

The Overlord stops, looks down at the kid, and then Missy darts forward, snatching him up, babbling apologies. The kid doesn’t appear phased; he makes an insistent noise and reaches a pudgy hand towards the Overlord’s face.

Which goes from scowling to round-eyed surprise in a split second.

“—oh,” he says, “um—ah?”

The kid laughs like this is the funniest goddamn thing he’s ever heard.

“Oh, look at you; you’re adorable!” the Overlord exclaims.

The kid covers his own face with his hands, then peeps over them.

“Ooh, yes!” the Overlord says, covers his own face with his gloved hands, then peeks out at the boy. “This game! I know this game! Ahahaha! Yes!”

The kid laughs loudly again.

It’s some minutes later that the Overlord finally remembers what he originally made his dramatic entrance for, and it’s only because Minion comes in and takes over entertaining Missy’s kid.

(some of the girls down at the docks have been having trouble with a group of former clients harassing them; he wanted to let Madame LaRoux know that Hot Flash will have a group of brainbots available to accompany her when she sees to the problem, tonight)

“—maternity leave,” he says abruptly.

Madame LaRoux blinks.

“What, now?” she says.

“Have you thought about maternity leave for members?” he asks.

“Well, the Association’s board has been talking about it since last June,” Madame LaRoux says slowly, “but I never brought it up in meetings ‘cause we couldn’t figure out how to afford it.”

The Overlord makes a noise of dissatisfaction, glancing over at Missy and her kid, playing peek-a-boo with Minion now.

“Send me the numbers,” he says, “if we need to, we can decrease the vice tax on the Association until it becomes self-sufficient enough to support the members.”

“Don’t bother,” Madame LaRoux says, as Missy fairly cranes her neck watching the Overlord leave the room.

The girl’s head whips around, her eyes wide.

“—I’m—I’m sorry?” she asks.

“With the Overlord,” Madame LaRoux says, “Don’t bother.”

Missy flushes.

“Oh—I—I didn’t realize you two were—”

Madame LaRoux shakes her head.

“We’re not,” she says. “I’m just telling you so you don’t wast your time, sugar. Everybody comes in here, just about, has a try for him. Half the time, he doesn’t even seem to notice. So just trust me—don’t waste your time.”

“…right,” Missy says, but Madame LaRoux can already tell she’s not gonna listen, and sure enough, three months later, Missy’s crying in her office about—

“—and then he talked to me about how I never needed to feel like I owed anyone anything, and that if I ever felt anyone in a position of power was trying to pressure me that I could tell you and he was so nice and I—w-wanted—to—d-die—”

“Mm-hm,” Madame LaRoux says, having heard all this before. God, she hopes Beauty gets her ass up to the office soon; she ain’t cut out for this heartbreak and crying shit.

* * *

 

Funny story, first time Madame LaRoux sees the Overlord with Roxanne Ritchi, the girl doesn’t strike her as anything special.

It’s during one of the Overlord’s battles with Metro Man, that first meeting; the Overlord takes the girl—she’s a small-time reporter or something—hostage, briefly, and then that dumb fuck in white sets him on fire.

It’s all over quickly; none of it seems particularly significant.

The second time she sees them together, on the other hand—

It’s a real kidnapping, this one; he’s got her tied to a chair and everything, and he’s leaning over her as he says something threatening.

And then Roxanne Ritchi arches her eyebrows and arches her neck, tilting her head back to look him in the eyes as she makes a smart-ass remark and then she smirks at him and—

It’s like a light turns on inside of him; it occurs to Scar that she’s never actually seen him look happy before.

(he’s looking at that girl in the chair like he is more overjoyed by the simple fact of her existence than he’s ever been by anything else in his entire life.)

“—damn it,” Scar says out loud to the television screen.

The next bi-weekly ladies-of-the-underworld meeting is a sober affair, in spite of all the alcohol they’re drinking.

“—fuck,” says Madame LaRoux, finally raising her glass in an ineloquent toast.

“Fuck,” they all echo, raising their own glasses.

Fucking Roxanne Ritchi.

 

**Author's Note:**

> suggested by Siadea and seconded by enchantedsleeper.


End file.
